


Between the Lines

by caramelle



Category: The 100 (TV)
Genre: Alternate Universe - Modern Setting, Artist Clarke, F/M, Fluff, Writer Bellamy
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2016-09-18
Updated: 2016-09-18
Packaged: 2018-08-15 19:23:15
Rating: Not Rated
Warnings: No Archive Warnings Apply
Chapters: 1
Words: 15,971
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/8069695
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/caramelle/pseuds/caramelle
Summary: Everybody judges a book by its cover. There’s no sugarcoating it.  Which is why when Bellamy's editor had first started looking for an illustrator to attach to his book nearly five years ago, he’d jumped at the chance to oversee the selection process.  Or, the one where Bellamy needs an artist to illustrate his fantasy adventure series.





	

**Author's Note:**

> HOLY CRAP it's a fic of mine that's longer than 10k AND actually finished!!!!!
> 
> haha okay but for real, that NEVER happens. this is officially my fic unicorn. ficnicorn? unific? ... unificorn??? (NO ONE CARES????)
> 
> enjoy! =)
> 
>  
> 
> EDIT: just a gentle forewarning that around halfway into the fic, you might want to start paying attention to dates and timestamps.  
> (thank you to everyone who's mentioned it btw! =))

 

 

 

 

 

 

 

Bellamy’s not sure whether he’s ever expected to be where he is today.

 

But then again, he’s also been told that he’d look a gift horse in the mouth, nose, _and_ ears before letting it anywhere near his proverbial stables.

 

It’s not that he didn’t think he’d want to write for a living. All he’s ever wanted to _do_ is write for a living. It’s all he’s wanted ever since he was in the sixth grade, and his English teacher submitted one of his essays for publication in the school term newsletter. It’s a shitty little thing. Just a brochure, really — a jumble of cheesy designs and bad font choices printed on two sheets of powder blue paper.

 

That shitty little brochure changed his life.

 

There was something about seeing his work printed out like that, on an official piece of printed paper being distributed to everyone in school, displayed to hundreds and hundreds of sets of eyes. A thrill rushed through him at the sight, at the knowledge that everyone in school was going to read his little story about a three-year-old Achilles picking up his first wooden sword.

 

Sure, his name was spelled wrong (who the hell is named _Bellemy_ ). And yeah, it was in a font that looked dangerously similar to Comic Sans.

 

But it was _there_. That was _him_. _His_ words, on paper.

 

He still has that shitty little blue brochure somewhere, buried deep in a box somewhere in his apartment.

 

Octavia had wanted to frame it up when he’d gotten his first royalties cheque.

 

He’d refused — but only because he still couldn’t _quite_ believe that people, _strangers_ had actually gone out and _paid money_ to own _his book_.

 

Four years later, he’s still not quite able to grasp it. Not even with a bestselling YA trilogy to his name, with collective millions of copies sold in seventeen different languages across the globe.

 

“You’re trending again,” Octavia informs him one day, seconds after bursting through his apartment door with no warning.

 

“And that’s… a good thing,” he says, not looking up from his laptop.

 

His sister rolls her eyes, dumping her bag on his kitchen table to shrug out of her jacket. “How many more times do I have to explain Twitter to you?”

 

“Eighty-ninth time’s the charm,” he quips dryly, closing a couple of tabs where he’d been researching Latin phrases. He’d taken a couple of courses in college, but that doesn’t help nearly as much as he’d like when it comes to facilitating construction and expansion of a fantasy literary world.

 

Octavia taps away on her phone. “Well, at least we know why. The _Times_ just put you on their Most Anticipated 2017 Releases list.”

 

He blinks, looking up from his screen. “Which _Times_?”

 

“ _The Times_ ,” Octavia says emphatically, nose still glued to her phone. “Just sent you the link.”

 

He scrunches his nose, turning back to his screen. “Right. Uh—”

 

“ _Email_ ,” his sister says, snapping her fingers sharply.

 

“I got it, I got it.” He squints at the article. “ _‘… much-awaited follow-up to the spell-binding tale of heroism and adventure woven in Blake’s_ Twelve Clans _series’_.” He leans back in his chair. “Cool. No pressure.”

 

“You gained a thousand followers since that article,” Octavia reports.

 

He grimaces. “Cool. Even less pressure.”

 

Octavia looks up. “Should we go back to that thing where I _don’t_ tell you stuff about the outside world?”

 

“Yes, please,” he replies, voice strained.

 

She shakes her head, finally cracking a smile. “How’s it coming along, anyway? Finally moved past chapter twenty-two?”

 

“No,” he says shortly, closing his laptop with a loud snick. “I’m never moving past chapter twenty-two. I’m stuck on chapter twenty-two for the rest of my life. That’s where I live now — Number Twenty-Two, Writer’s Block Lane.”

 

“Don’t be an idiot,” Octavia scoffs, reaching out to kick lightly at his ankles as he passes by. “It’s just a little roadbump. You’re going to get it soon.”

 

“Yeah, sure,” he grumbles under his breath, spooning coffee grounds into his coffeemaker. “Soon.”

 

“Anyway,” Octavia continues briskly, “Miller wants to confirm your attendance for Ark’s anniversary gala next week.”

 

“Didn’t we already RSVP to that?” he replies vaguely, pressing buttons on the machine.

 

“Yes, but he thinks you’re unreliable,” Octavia says. “And I don’t blame him.”

 

“Inspiration _strikes_ ,” he argues, yanking open his fridge door. “What am I supposed to do? _Not_ write it all down before it gets away?”

 

“I didn’t say I don’t _get_ it,” Octavia retorts. “Inspiration or no, you _have_ to come for this one, Bell. No ifs or buts about it. Kane’s asking for you.”

 

Bellamy sighs, turning to face his sister. It’s not every day the president of Ark Publishing specifically requests your presence at the celebration of his company’s hundredth anniversary.

 

“I’ll be there, O,” he promises, lips curving in a wry smile.

 

 

 

* * *

 

 

 

 

**13 th September 2016, 2:23pm**

**From: cgriffin@mail.com**

**To: bellamyblake@mail.com**

 

 

_Bellamy,_

_Glad you like the last batch. I was really worried we’d have a repeat case of the cheekbone argument again. (Read: by “worried”, I really meant “looking forward to”. Even if it was just to hear you compare Robb’s facial structure to types of fruit again.)_

_Here’s the new set of sketches for chapters 12-20. Let me know what you think._

_\- Clarke_

 

 

 

 

**14 th September 2016, 9:07am**

**From: bellamyblake@mail.com**

**To: cgriffin@mail.com**

 

 

_Clarke,_

_The last batch is perfect. Everyone’s cheekbones are looking great. I was really worried about (read: looking forward to) it too._

_I may or may not have spent a few hours Googling ‘exotic fruits’ in preparation for any future debates._

_Thank you for the new sketches — prompt as always. Please accept my apologies for having no new pages to send over. Chapter 22 is being annoying and stubborn. Will look these over when I’ve finally wrangled 22 back into some semblance of submission._

_\- Bellamy_

 

 

 

* * *

 

  

 

Bellamy’s all too familiar with the concept of longing.

 

Growing up poor, never having known a father, losing his mother just weeks before his eighteenth birthday, denying himself all social pleasures and ambitious pursuits in order to take care of his baby sister, giving up everything that was within his power to give so she never lacked for anything — yeah, he knows about longing, all right.

 

As a kid, he used to write down his wishes into a little notebook. He never ever showed them to anybody, not even Octavia or his mother. As he got older, he started turning these wishes into short stories, making up characters that could slay their demons and find fulfilment for their dreams. Characters that were allowed to live out his wildest fantasies, safely ensconced in worlds where wishes meant something, counted for something, came _true_.

 

He’d filled up two notebooks that year alone, scribbling in tiny letters along the cramped spaces of the margins to make the words fit.

 

But that was eleven-year-old Bellamy.

 

Thirty-year-old Bellamy has it pretty good, he’s not going to lie. It’s been several years since he’s had to go to bed with an empty stomach, or wear three sweaters around the house to avoid turning on the heating. He’s not _rich_ , or anything, but he does well enough for himself and his sister (even though she doesn’t really _need_ it nowadays). He’s got a nice apartment with large windows and a shower with proper water pressure. He’s got a job that gives him flexible hours and zero basis for day-to-day interaction with strangers, _and_ pays better than he’d ever have imagined.

 

If a shooting star were to appear right in front of Bellamy right now, he honestly wouldn’t know what to wish for.

 

Twenty-five-year-old Bellamy, though, would have known exactly what to ask of a shooting star.

 

 

 

* * *

 

 

 

 

**14 th September 2016, 5:49pm**

**From: cgriffin@mail.com**

**To: bellamyblake@mail.com**

 

 

_Bellamy,_

_Uh oh. Chapter 22 sounds like it’s taking after its creator. Rough luck there._

_Attached a few pictures of breadfruit for your consideration. (Yes, breadfruit is a thing. No, I did not make that up.) Maybe Elise could undergo a breadfruit makeover in chapter 23._

_I have at least seven more ideas like this. Just finished two other projects, so I’ve got some time on my hands. Let me know if you need any more input on the exotic fruit front._

_\- Clarke_

 

 

 

 

**16 th September 2016, 2:40am**

**From: bellamyblake@mail.com**

**To: cgriffin@mail.com**

 

 

_Clarke,_

_First of all, rude._

_Secondly, thank you for the breadfruit submissions. I really needed something to smile about today, seeing as Mairi is still refusing to bend to my will. Why won’t she do what I want her to do? I created her out of the figments of my imagination, and this is how she repays me._

_Third, congratulations on the finished projects. At least one of us is getting stuff done._

_Fourth, the most recent set of sketches are everything I could have ever dreamed of. I made some minor notes in the PDF files, but other than that, they’re really wonderful._

_Fifth, I think I’m good on the exotic fruit front for now. But thank you._

_\- Bellamy_

 

 

 

* * *

 

 

  

The thing no one ever tells you about being a writer is how much of your job isn’t actually _writing_.

 

There’s meetings with editors and publishers — meetings to pitch storylines, meetings for providing progress updates, meetings to discuss publishing contracts and deals. If you’ve signed a series deal, there’re long sessions to plan installment releases and meet ‘n’ greets and rollout timetables.

 

There’s publicity, which is a whole bundle of headaches all on its own. The publishing company usually hires publicists to take the onus off writers, but still requires writers to participate in discussions with whoever it is that’s been assigned to them.

 

There’s conventions and events and galas to attend, high-rollers to gladhand and charm into investing in the company. If it weren’t for Octavia, Bellamy would have happily ingested a non-lethal poison rather than attend another of these formal gatherings without her by his side.

 

Except maybe the conventions. He likes those. Interacting with fans is still a pretty mindblowing experience for him.

 

He doesn’t have an agent, but Octavia manages him, and she handles everything an agent would usually handle along the way. He likes it better that way. She’s good with sorting through options, and laying them out for him. She’s certainly much more use at the negotiating table. He can barely remember his own website address.

 

Also, he’s kind of still in shock that he even gets to write at all. He’d take pretty much any deal that came his way. Octavia makes sure only the good ones come his way.

 

And then, there’s visuals.

 

Everybody judges a book by its cover. There’s no sugarcoating it. Editors know it, publishers know it, writers know it. In a market overstuffed with generic stock images of flashy neon backgrounds and pale, angular figures either half-dressed or half-hidden in the shadows, it’s hard to stand out.

 

Which is why when his editor had first started looking for an illustrator to attach to his book nearly five years ago, he’d jumped at the chance to oversee the selection process.

 

“I want something rustic,” he’d told Miller. “Something actually _drawn_. None of that CGI stuff.”

 

“You keep saying ‘CGI’,” Miller had replied. “I don’t think it means what you think it means.”

 

But Miller had come through, forwarding him portfolios from eight or nine illustrators.

 

 _‘No promises, dude,’_ his email had read. _‘Keep in mind, Ark’s never worked with a few of these guys before, but well, if you’re gonna be so ~indie~ about it, then here you go.’_

It'd taken Bellamy three days to narrow it down, but once he'd decided, he was completely sure.

 

"Maybe you should give Miller a second choice," Octavia had said, squinting over his shoulder at the portfolio he'd chosen. "What if — uh — _C. Griffin_ 's already engaged on some other project?"

 

"He won't be," Bellamy had said confidently. "Look at his work, O. It’s like he’s already _read_ my book. It’s meant to be.”

 

Nevertheless, doubt gnawed at him. If C. Griffin _really_ was engaged elsewhere by the time they responded… he didn’t even want to think about it, really.

 

In that moment, he’d _really_ fervently wished for a shooting star to appear — just so he could wish his own words into being.

 

 

 

* * *

 

 

 

 

**16 th September 2016, 6:13pm**

**From: cgriffin@mail.com**

**To: bellamyblake@mail.com**

 

 

_Bellamy,_

_Maybe it has something to do with how Mairi is eighteen years old and hasn’t had a chance to grow out of her rebellious phase yet. Plus, you did just kill off her older boyfriend, so. (I’m never forgiving you for that, by the way.)_

_Glad to hear you liked the sketches. Thank you for the congrats. I’m taking a few days off, so I might not check my email till next week. (Who am I kidding. I will probably be checking my email again in an hour.)_

_[Oh God. I really do need a vacation.]_

_For fear of sounding like a hovering nanny, I’m going to remind you to at least try to sleep at a normal hour tonight. Elise is counting on you to make it to chapter 23. Breadfruit makeovers don’t just grow on trees, you know._

_\- Clarke_

 

 

 

 

**17 th September 2016, 10:08pm**

**From: bellamyblake@mail.com**

**To: cgriffin@mail.com**

 

 

_Clarke,_

_You’re probably already out on vacation, but I thought I’d let you know that I’m home at eleven o’clock on a Saturday night, and according to my sister, it’s your fault._

_On a more positive note, I just got off a twelve-hour bender. 22 is finally done and dusted._

_Well. It’s done, at least. ‘Dusted’ will have to wait till Miller’s through with it. Nevertheless, I’ll be keeping my eye on that miscreant._

_It looks like Mairi is officially staying on the naughty list. Sorry, I know she’s one of your favorites._

_And now, I’m going to sleep for ten years._

_\- Bellamy_

 

 

 

* * *

 

 

 

 

Bellamy’s always been a pretty good judge of character.

 

Octavia is a swinging pendulum. She either opens figurative arms to a person without holding anything back, or dislikes them right off the bat. It’s hard to change Octavia’s mind once she’s made it up about someone, which is usually within the first five minutes of meeting them.

 

Bellamy, on the other hand, likes to take his time. He observes new acquaintances with care — gathering details about them, gauging their attitudes and perspectives from whatever they say or do.

 

But all of that kind of went out the window when he met Clarke Griffin.

 

He’d walked into the conference room, taken one look at her, and inadvertently blurted out a very loud, very unmistakable _“oh”_.

 

She’d frowned, pulling back the hand she’d already started to extend towards him. “Oh?”

 

He’d blinked, looking her up and down. “Uh, I was just expecting— I mean, I thought— “

 

“I was a man?” she’d finished expectantly, folding her arms across her middle.

 

“Yeah.” He might as well come out and admit it. Trying to deny it would probably just make things even more awkward. He folds his arms across his chest, brows furrowed. “You didn’t give your first name in your portfolio.”

 

She makes a small noise, somewhere between _‘mm’_ and _‘tsk’_. “Yeah, well, you’d be surprised how many people _still_ pass on artists just because they don’t have penises.”

 

Between them, Miller clears his throat. “Bellamy Blake,” he’d said dryly. “Meet Clarke Griffin.”

 

“Octavia Blake,” his sister had announced, elbowing her way past him with a wide grin, hand thrust out at Clarke. “Manager by day, sister for life.”

 

“Commiserations,” Clarke had replied, her blue eyes glinting with amusement.

 

He’d had to concentrate extra hard to fight off the hot flush working its way up his neck.

 

It instantly disappeared of its own volition about fifteen minutes later.

 

“Also, I wanted to offer up a suggestion regarding Elise’s appearance,” Clarke had said, looking up from her sketchbook where she’d been taking notes and making rough outlines.

 

He’d started at her proclamation, leaning forward in his seat. “What _about_ her appearance?”

 

“I was thinking of giving her blonde hair,” Clarke had said clearly. “Instead of the red.”

 

His head had already been shaking before she could finish. “No. The red hair stays.”

 

Clarke had frowned across the table at him. “Why?”

 

“Because it’s symbolic of her fire,” he’d said, trying to keep the snap out of his tone. Elise was a particular tender spot with him (as Miller and Octavia already understood). “She’s passionate about leading her people, about protecting them and making sure they’re safe.”

 

“Yes, but that passion manifests itself in her calmness,” Clarke had pointed out. “She’s logical, steady. She keeps a cool head under pressure. She’s the ice to Robb’s fire.” She’d cocked a brow then, pencil tipping sideways in her fingers. “Or am I not reading the first ten chapters right?”

 

He’d gaped. Actually _gaped_ , for a good three seconds.

 

“You read the chapters.”

 

She’d merely stared at him, pencil halted mid-tap. “They were sent to me. What else was I supposed to do?”

 

Silence had fallen then — a very deafening sort of silence. Octavia merely frowned in her seat, both brows arched. Even Miller had seemed at a loss for words, momentarily robbed of his endlessly snarky witticisms.

 

They’d sent over the chapters less than _twenty-four hours ago_. Artists usually read the first chapter or two, to get a feel for the characters and setting they’re bringing to life before meeting with the author, and working out if there’s enough creative chemistry for a concrete illustration deal. Editors usually send over at least five or six chapters to start, but it’s just to be _polite_.

 

“Unless the red hair has some kind of ethnic significance to it?” Clarke had said after a few extended beats, glancing round at Miller and Octavia. “Or religious? My knowledge of the _Twelve Clans_ ’verse is obviously much more limited than yours.”

 

Bellamy’s powers of speech had returned by the time she’d finished speaking.

 

“No,” he’d said slowly. “No ethnic or religious connotations with the red hair.”

 

“Okay,” she’d said, brisk. “In that case, I think blonde suits Elise better. Really brings out the whole ice princess vibe. What do you think?”

 

He’d looked at her for a long moment. She’d had the faintest smudge of grey on her forehead, from where she’d carelessly brushed her bangs out of her face earlier with lead-stained fingertips.

 

“Fine. Okay. Make her blonde.”

 

Miller had apologised the second the meeting was over.

 

“Then again, it’s really your fault for picking someone we don’t usually work with,” he’d added immediately afterward. Trust Miller to make even his apology somehow become Bellamy’s fault.

 

“We don’t _have_ to go with her if we don’t want to, right?” Octavia had asked.

 

Miller had shaken his shorn head. “We’re sending her the contract at the end of the day. You’ve got about five hours to change your mind.”

 

For some reason, Bellamy had found himself shaking his head.

 

“I won’t,” he’d said decisively. “I _really_ want her art on my book.”

 

“Okay,” Miller had said, looking uncertain. “If you’re sure?”

 

“Positive,” he’d said, sounding even firmer than before without really trying. As an afterthought, he’d shrugged. “Besides, it’s no big deal. I’m _writing_ the damn thing. I can always just _imagine_ Elise with red hair.”

 

He’d meant it, too.

 

It didn’t do anything to change the fact that later that night, he’d sat down with his laptop, and couldn’t stop picturing a girl with strands of gold streaming over her shoulders every time his fingers tapped out the name ‘Elise’.

 

 

 

* * *

 

 

 

 

**19 th September 2016, 12:26am**

**From: cgriffin@mail.com**

**To: bellamyblake@mail.com**

 

 

_Bellamy,_

_I caved. But I made it forty-eight hours with no email, and, whatever, that’s fucking something._

_I thought Octavia would be proud. I contributed to you getting work done. And to you getting a healthy amount of sleep. Jeez, what kind of sister-manager would blame me for that._

_Please don’t tell me Mairi is going off the deep end. PLEASE. I will take to my Twitter account to call you out in front of the entire world._

_\- Clarke_

  

 

**20 th September 2016, 8.53am**

**From: bellamyblake@mail.com**

**To: cgriffin@mail.com**

 

 

_Clarke,_

_Forty-eight hours is great. Full disclosure, I wasn’t too sure you could make it forty-eight minutes._

_Now that 22 is behind me, things have been progressing extremely quickly. There’s more story unfolding in 23 and 24 than there is in the first TWELVE chapters._

_(Seriously, though. I think I might have to go back for a major overhaul. Fuck me. I hate rewrites.)_

_I’m starting to feel like Mairi is completely beyond my control. I hear her voice in my head when I go to bed at night, yelling and railing at me (while calling me ‘Robb’ — but that’s a psychological issue for my real therapist)._

_Please don’t call me out on Twitter. I might just try to respond without O’s supervision, and probably end up blocking myself or something._

_\- Bellamy_

 

 

 

* * *

 

  

 

Bellamy hadn’t seen Clarke Griffin again after that.

 

He’d returned to Philadelphia, she’d sent back a signed contract, and that was that.

 

Two weeks later, she’d sent over an email with no less than fourteen PDF files attached, all complete sketches of characters and settings.

 

He’d been so inspired by her imaginings that he’d immediately sat down at his desk, and written two full chapters within the span of a single day.

 

The next day, he’d emailed her back with his notes on her work.

 

She’d responded five days later with the updated sketches, featuring the changes he’d requested.

 

He’d thanked her.

 

Things fell silent again — until he’d sent over his next batch of chapters.

 

And that’s how they’d essentially functioned over the next two years.

 

In fact, in their entire working relationship, Bellamy’s only actually _seen_ her, face-to-face, a grand total of two times.

 

(Including their first meeting, yes.)

 

It’s not that strange, he supposes. There are partners out there in the world who work closely together and have never even laid eyes on each other.

 

But it does feel _kind_ of weird for him.

 

He likes working _with_ people. Always has. Even back in college, he’d much preferred meeting up with an assignment partner to work than filling in each other’s blanks on Google Docs or something.

 

Octavia says it’s because he doesn’t fully understand how to use Google Docs — which, okay, pfft. It’s only _slightly_ because of that.

 

Mostly, it’s just something about being in the same physical space as someone that makes him really feel like he’s working _with_ them. Technology was great for the weeks he’d had two extra shifts at the bar or the café, but he’d avoided it as much as he could manage. Something always felt discomfortingly disjointed about the process of trying to put together one coherent, complete piece of work with someone while relying _entirely_ on the virtues of the Internet.

 

Which is why it’s kind of weird for him that he doesn’t feel any of that with Clarke.

 

She just somehow manages to achieve the right amount of professional without being stiflingly formal. At the same time, her tone is conversational enough that he feels relaxed enough to process his thoughts organically, and phrase his response as thoroughly as he would like without worrying about coming off as offensive or insensitive.

 

Something about it just _works_ for him.

 

When _The Twelve Clans_ was officially released over two years ago, Ark Pub had thrown a small party for him. By ‘small’, it meant small for a major publishing company with hundreds of employees and investors. They also wanted to take the chance to recognise a couple of new authors fresh to the Ark family, both with hotly anticipated releases coming up in a few months’ time.

 

For Bellamy, it was a bit of a dual celebration. The book had just moved up three places on the _Times’_ Bestselling list in its third week on the shelves to peak at number two. Also, he’d just signed his series deal with Ark, to turn it into a complete trilogy.

 

Not just one fluke of a book. _Three_.

 

So he’d let Octavia practically muscle him into a suit and tie, laced his feet up in a pair of shoes he could actually see his reflection in, and turned up at the hotel ballroom Ark Pub had booked out for the evening.

 

He’d batted away his sister’s meddling hands from the skinny tie knotted around his neck. “O, this is as straight as it gets.”

 

“Phrasing,” Miller had interjected absently, gaze locked on his phone. “Okay, I’m going to find Kane. Keep an eye on him,” he’d added to Octavia as he’d walked away.

 

“I literally raised you,” Bellamy had grumbled, one hand tugging restlessly at his tie.

 

“Yeah, well, I _literally_ manage your life now,” Octavia had shot back, elbowing him in the ribs.

 

“And I’m literally entertained.”

 

They’d whipped round to see Clarke standing two feet away, her curvy frame wrapped up in a slinky black dress, looking like—

 

“Jesus Christ,” Bellamy had said.

 

The blonde had raised a questioning brow. “Sorry?”

 

“You look _hot_ ,” Octavia had interjected, her mouth curving into a wolfish grin. “But that’s just an extremely rough translation.”

 

Clarke had nodded, looking faintly amused. “Thank you, Octavia. It’s good to see you again,” she’d said, her gaze swinging back to Bellamy.

 

“Well _I_ definitely feel glad to see you,” Octavia had announced when Bellamy lagged just a second too long. “Because Miller’s scouting around looking for Marcus Kane, and I need a drink before meeting with the fucking _president_ of Ark Pub.”

 

“No champagne,” Bellamy had warned as she’d tripped off towards the buffet table.

 

Clarke had watched her go, lips curved in the hint of a smile. “She’s not of age?”

 

“Not yet,” he’d said with a slight grimace. “Couple months to go.”

 

Clarke had smiled then, the soft expression framed by perfectly curled locks of blonde. “Congratulations on everything, by the way.”

 

“Thanks,” he’d said, shifting his weight from one foot to the other. “You get the contract Miller sent?”

 

She’d nodded. “Sent it back this morning. I would’ve waited a day to avoid looking desperate, but a series deal is kind of an illustrator’s holy grail. Especially when it’s for a series as amazing as yours.”

 

“Thanks,” he’d said again, automatically. It had taken some extra effort, but he’d met her gaze. “But, uh, thank you, too. None of this would have happened without you.”

 

She’d cocked her head, more curious than disbelieving. “What do you mean?”

 

He’d paused then, genuinely unsure of how to answer. “You’ve been… very helpful,” he’d finally settled on, after a few moments of silent floundering.

 

 _Fuck_ , he’d instantly told himself. _‘Very helpful.’ You string words together_ _for a living, and_ that’s _what you came up with._

 

Clarke had merely regarded him with steady calm, her clear blue eyes fixed on him. “You’re welcome,” she’d said after a beat.

 

Thankfully, Octavia had returned just then, with two glasses of champagne for them and one of non-alcoholic sparkling cider for herself.

 

“Cheers!” she’d yelled, effectively shoving the very concept of awkward silences into the void of non-existence.

 

Clarke had excused herself after they’d met Kane.

 

He’d breathed a huge sigh — but he hadn’t been quite sure if it had been composed of relief, or disappointment.

 

In any case, that evening had led him to the staunch conclusion that he’s much better at exchanging emails with Clarke Griffin than actually _talking_ with her.

 

 

 

* * *

 

 

 

**22 nd September 2016, 12:51am**

**From: cgriffin@mail.com**

**To: bellamyblake@mail.com**

 

 

_Bellamy,_

_I could make it forty-eight DAYS, Blake._

_If my income wasn’t directly dependent on email correspondence, that is._

_Shit. Redos are the fucking worst. Please accept my condolences, along with a gentle plea to not completely change any of the character actions or settings, beyond a few minor details on background props and severity of bruising and/or bloodied-ness._

_I don’t mean that, of course. Change whatever you want. I’ll just make sure to enjoy my last couple days of vacation to the fullest._

_Hearing voices sounds like a swell sign. Feel free to bring up Mairi’s moodswings with Dr. Nyko (if you see this in time). If anyone could figure that out, it’s probably him._

_If you end up rewriting the entire thing, I’ll just book an appointment with him myself._

_You can’t block YOURSELF on Twitter._

_… At least I don’t THINK so?_

_\- Clarke_

  

 

**23 rd September 2016, 9:12am**

**From: bellamyblake@mail.com**

**To: cgriffin@mail.com**

 

 

_Clarke,_

_Let’s not be rash and start making claims we couldn’t possibly ever live up to, now._

_Please consider your condolences accepted, and your plea taken into serious deliberation. I took some time to read over the first couple of chapters. I’ll have to discuss it with Miller, but probably no rewrites for now — just a few major edits. You may now breathe a sigh of relief._

_Saw Dr. Nyko yesterday. Apparently, there’s a good chance I’m projecting my feelings re: Octavia onto Mairi. (Before you start on me killing off Rashard, let me just remind you that I’d already planned on that happening BEFORE Octavia told me about moving in with Lincoln.) ((Thank God for email timestamps.))_

_Leave it to the doc to suss out that I’m projecting my feelings about Octavia onto a character directly inspired by Octavia. You do that all the time, and I don’t have to pay you by the hour. (Thought: maybe you should book an appointment with yourself.)_

_I just tried it. You’re right, you can’t block yourself._

_I also ended up accidentally RT’ing about nine random tweets in the process, including one from Carly Rae Jepsen. She’s the one who did ‘Call Me Maybe’, right? Anyway, Octavia was not happy._

_\- Bellamy_

 

 

 

* * *

 

 

 

 

In the delicate art of Internet communication, Bellamy probably isn’t the most well-versed individual alive.

 

Most of what he knows about texting comes from Octavia. He still doesn’t fully understand all the acronyms, but it’s kind of like learning a new language — the longer he looks at it, the more quickly he can grasp the gist of whatever it is she’s saying.

 

Social media was an entirely new trip for him. Twitter had seemed like a good idea at first, but then the hash tags had started multiplying all over his feed, and he’d been completely lost. He’d uploaded three photos to his Instagram account over the span of seven weeks before finally deleting the app. It’d taken him a good few months to understand that Tumblr was not just MySpace revamped with a new name slapped on.

 

He still likes Twitter, though. Mostly because it lets him make friends with other writers without having to physically meet them and exchange numbers. (Sometimes he ends up publicly tweeting stuff he means to tell Raven or Murphy over direct message, but that’s fine. It’s never anything incriminating, considering most of their conversations revolve around whether a character would use _“hi”_ , _“hey”,_ or _“hello”_.)

 

The one thing he _does_ know is email. Octavia says it’s because he types like he talks. Apparently, that’s a problem.

 

He’s comfortable with email. It’s instantaneous without being stressful, or making him feel like he’s already late for taking more than two seconds to respond. He doesn’t get weird reactions for using proper grammar and punctuation. It lets him talk to whomever he wants without having to get in a car or on a plane. It’s _extremely_ helpful for business communication purposes, especially when his _job_ is words.

 

He gets that people don’t become friends over email anymore. They follow each other on Twitter and Instagram, and send snappy messages that let someone gauge their personality within 140 characters.

 

But he likes email. It’s formal enough for his needs, and yet relaxed enough to prevent things from getting uncomfortable or awkward.

 

Even so, he never expected to rely on it _this_ much.

 

He’d already known that he’d have to communicate almost exclusively via email with his illustrator. It’s the most efficient way to work, when you’ve both got your hands full with packed schedules and trying to manage unpredictable bouts of inspiration.

 

But he never could have predicted what exchanging emails with Clarke Griffin would have become.

 

Thinking about it now, it’s actually pretty funny. Funny like odd funny, not ha-ha funny.

 

… Actually, maybe it’s both.

 

Whichever it is (it’s probably both), things changed after that Ark Pub party.

 

He never thought he’d be so eager to know the thoughts and opinions of someone who isn’t his sister or his editor. He certainly never thought he’d be this _invested_ in the thoughts and opinions of someone he’s only ever properly seen just twice.

 

But somehow, within just a few short years, Clarke Griffin became one of the people he trusts most in the world.

 

At the same time, it’s still strange. They have some unspoken agreement to maintain a certain degree of politeness, each making sure to be perfectly composed and well-phrased for the most part in their emails. The tone of their exchanges hovers somewhere between close friends and affable colleagues, both comfortable and precarious at the same time. After all, they’re still talking about the chapters and the illustrations — but if he’s being honest, most of the time, it doesn’t feel like work at all.

 

(Then again, a lot of his job doesn’t feel like work. Not when it’s sitting around the house doing his best to make his wildest fantasies even wilder and more fantastic than they already are.)

 

They’ve even had fights over email. Long, lengthy letters that have had him scrolling further and further, eyes roving heatedly over the lines upon lines of her responses before scrolling back up just to repeat the process again at least two times over before hitting ‘Reply’, lacing his fingers in a crackling stretch as he prepares to type up an equally wordy answer.

 

She was the first person he’d told when Octavia had started dating Lincoln.

 

At first, he’d thought it was because she’d been there when the couple had met, at that Ark Pub party over two years ago. Unable to get his mind off of it, he’d mentioned it in one of his emails. It was really just in passing — no rambly complaints or anything.

 

He’d been thoroughly surprised when she’d picked up on it, and actually asked him _questions_. Not about Octavia. Not about Lincoln.

 

Questions about _him_. What _he_ thought, how _he_ felt.

 

He’d almost expected her to sign off with _‘PSYCH! Lololol’_. Or whatever it is the kids are saying these days.

 

(‘LOL’ is still a thing. He’s at least eighty-six percent certain.)

 

He’d spent thirty whole minutes just composing his reply.

 

He hadn’t even remembered to be self-conscious about it, too. It was only when her responding email had come in a day later that he’d even realised how _much_ he’d said.

 

He’s pretty sure that if it had been anyone else, he would have left it at _‘I’m fine, thanks for asking’_.

 

For some reason, the mere sight of her name in the address box just happened to be — and _still_ is — an automatic shut-off for his mental filtering system.

 

 

 

* * *

 

 

  

**24 th September 2016, 4.09pm**

**From: cgriffin@mail.com**

**To: bellamyblake@mail.com**

 

 

_Bellamy,_

_I live up to my claims. You are fully aware of that. It’s the only reason you’re even listed as a reference on my portfolio. I know you think it’s your winning charm. It’s not._

_Considering how your “major edits” usually go, I think I’ll hold on to my sigh of relief for now._

_I didn’t SAY anything about you killing off Rashard… but if the shoe fits._

_(You’re right, though. There’s no other way it could have gone down. He’s too fucking NOBLE. Curse you for making him so damn perfect and contributing to women’s unrealistic expectations of men.)_

_It wasn’t too hard to figure out. Things are changing for you and Octavia. It’s only natural to feel like control is slipping out of your grasp. (Feel free to start paying me, though.)_

_Carly Rae probably lost her shit. She’s the biggest_ Clans _fan. Seriously, she tweets about it every month or something. … Or at least her agent does._

_(Don’t act like you don’t know the words to the full chorus of ‘Call Me Maybe’. Everyone knows the words to the full chorus of ‘Call Me Maybe’.)_

_\- Clarke_

  

 

**25 th September 2016, 10.24pm**

**From: bellamyblake@mail.com**

**To: cgriffin@mail.com**

 

 

_Clarke,_

_Sorry, I can’t hear you over the sound of my charm WINNING._

_Good idea, holding on to that sigh. Those edits are definitely going to be on the major side. I’ll try to keep from generating too much work for you to come back to._

_Are you through re: Rashard? Robb is your favorite. Go back to gushing about him and the unrealistic expectations he gives women._

_(I miss Rashard. Even if it’s just for how much manageable he makes Mairi for my narrative development capabilities.)_

_I know things are changing. I know it in my gut, at least. It’s just taking my head a bit more time to catch up, to recognize that they’re changing for the better. O is so happy with Lincoln; he MAKES her so happy. I really do love the guy for that._

_If you ever tell her that, I will deny it to my last breath._

_Shit. No wonder Octavia is so insistent that I do a photo with her at the Ark Pub gala. Also, WHY is a pop singer even attending a book publishing company’s anniversary shindig?_

_(I can neither confirm nor deny any allegations regarding my alleged knowledge of the lyrics to ‘Call Me Maybe’.)_

_\- Bellamy_

 

 

 

* * *

 

 

 

 

Bellamy’s never really had a best friend before.

 

He’s had friends, sure.

 

There was a boy in middle school he’d play soccer with during lunch. The boy would skip lunch because he loved soccer. Bellamy would skip lunch because he didn’t dare spending even that small amount of money.

 

There was a girl in ninth grade he’d spend hours talking Greek and Roman mythology with. All the other kids teased them relentlessly — _‘Blake’s got a cru-ush!’_ It never really bothered him until the girl had started dropping hints, ones so pointed that even he couldn’t miss her thinly veiled attempts to nudge him into asking her out. Once he’d caught on, he’d quickly stopped seeking out her company. There was just no way he could manage his part-time job down at the diner, help Octavia with her homework, _and_ try to keep a girlfriend happy.

 

There was another boy in college. They’d met during freshman orientation week, and both were content enough to keep hanging out over the rest of the year. Bellamy had thought maybe he’d found a friend he liked enough to not have to worry about socialising over the next three years, but the boy had transferred out before sophomore year was even over, packing up and moving halfway across the country to be with his girlfriend.

 

Yeah, he’s had friends. But no one’s ever really stuck around long enough for Bellamy to believe in the concept of a best friend.

 

He’s not sure whether it’s just him mellowing out, but that’s been waning thin of late.

 

There’s Raven and Murphy. Most of the time, they can’t stand each other — but both of them refuses to be the first to leave their three-way group chat.

 

They’re both brutally honest with him, which is something he’d been surprised to find how much he appreciated. They’re both great sounding boards for his problems. Raven’s good at finding the quickest, most direct solutions. Murphy’s good at coming up with the _smartest_ ones. Granted, the problems he discusses with them are usually work-related. (What else would you expect from a trio of published authors?) But the few times things have gotten personal on their group chat, they’ve been unexpectedly helpful.

 

There’s Miller. Miller was, and still is, a fucking godsend. He’d been the first editor to respond to Bellamy’s manuscript, inviting him in for a meeting and taking the time to hear all of his ideas out. At first, Bellamy was apprehensive. He couldn’t help it, having heard plenty of horror stories about editors from hell. But he quickly discovered that Miller's unobtrusive, determined brand of support paired perfectly with his own personal style of very obtrusive determination. Also, he’s the only one in the whole _industry_ who seems to enjoy black humour the way Bellamy does — with a healthy, appropriate level of genuine appreciation. (Murphy revels in it just a bit _too_ much for Bellamy’s comfort.)

 

Most people in the publishing industry are — unpopular opinion alert — pretty damn _boring_.

 

Don’t get him wrong. They’re almost always brilliant.

 

But he’s just never been able to find a real _friend_ in anyone… until Raven, and Murphy, and Miller.

 

But his absolute favourite thing about all three of the abovementioned individuals is the fact that they never, ever pry.

 

He _hates_ when people pry. He certainly wouldn’t call himself a fan of _sharing_. That’s what spending most of one’s life learning to smother or silence one’s emotions usually does to a person. His automatic impulse with feelings is to shove them to the back of his mind, leave them in a corner to fester, or shrink, or disappear on their own.

 

They rarely shrink or disappear on their own.

 

Is it _healthy_? Probably not.

 

But it’s kept him from cracking at the seams all this years. It’s stopped him from slipping up, from making himself vulnerable to people who could use the information to hurt him, or, God forbid, Octavia.

 

So, yeah. That’s his system. That’s how he works.

 

Unfortunately, it’s a system that doesn’t really make for conducive attitudes and perspectives, especially when it comes to romance.

 

His first girlfriend, Roma, had been a mistake right off the bat. Junior year of high school, he’d just been looking for a distraction. They’d just found out about Aurora’s cancer — stage four, too fucking _late_ — and all he wanted to do was close his eyes to the truth, block out everything else for a while. Writing didn’t help the way it used to, not when the only thing filling up his head was _sickness terminal dying_ , the words swelling in size and pressing up against the walls of his mind.

 

So he latched on to flirtatious banter, heated make out sessions in custodial closets, holding hands in the hallway and out on the courtyard.

 

Only problem was, he could never quite bring himself to latch on to Roma herself.

 

She was fun, but that wasn’t all she’d wanted to be to him. So they ended it, six months later.

 

His second girlfriend hadn’t really been his girlfriend at all. Echo never seemed interested in anything more than sex. Throughout the whole fourteen months they’d been ‘together’, she’d never even stayed the night at his place _once_. He’d stayed at hers once or twice, but eventually it just felt like he was intruding on her personal space, so he’d never tried to again.

 

They’d never even ended it properly. It was a full three weeks before he’d even realised that they’d completely stopped texting with each other.

 

Gina was the closest thing to love he’d ever known — real, _eros_ love. They’d met when she was interviewing him for an article she was writing for Barcode, a web publication that was quickly gaining a reputation for its comprehensive cover of the modern literary scene. It’d been almost a full month after _The Twelve Clans_ was first released — just a few days after the Ark Pub celebration party.

 

He still doesn’t quite know what had possessed him to ask her to have dinner with him, cutting their amiable post-interview chatter off to blurt the question out, making her pause midway through packing up.

 

She’d merely smiled, and said yes. Thank _God_.

 

The next four months were some of the most unnatural, wonderful times of his life. Gina was lovely, and funny, and kind, but she had an edge to her that let him know she needed no one’s protection. She was independent, but she was also comfortable with opening up to him emotionally in a way that he was completely unaccustomed to with his lovers. She was smart, but compassionate. Pretty, but tough.

 

Deep down, he’d known all along that she was far too much for him. Too perfect, too well-balanced, too _good_. Far more than he deserved.

 

Which was why when she’d told him about Barcode transferring her to L.A., he’d let her go without a single word of protest.

 

He’s not an idiot. He knows she’d been hurt by his passive acceptance, by the total lack of dismay on his part. He hadn’t even suggested trying it long-distance.

 

But Gina Martin deserved _better_ , and he just couldn’t take a chance that he might be standing in her way.

 

 

 

* * *

 

 

 

**26 th September 2016, 6.34pm**

**From: cgriffin@mail.com**

**To: bellamyblake@mail.com**

 

 

_Bellamy,_

_Well, I’m back from vacation, so. I’m ready. Do your worst. Hopefully before I manage to book another project, if that’s not too much trouble._

_I’m serious, though. Don’t hold back, least of all on my account. It’s your book, your story to tell._

_Also serious re: getting edits done before I start working on another project. Just saying._

_Robb is different. He’s my favourite BECAUSE he’s flawed. I love him in spite of — no, BECAUSE of his faults. Rashard is literally faultless. But okay, I will go back to “gushing” about Robb if it makes you happy._

_I took a screenshot of you saying you love Lincoln, by the way. Saving that for a special occasion. Maybe his and Octavia’s wedding?_

_Carly Rae Jepsen is attending the Ark Pub gala? Holy shit. I should probably look up the guestlist. (Is Beyoncé attending? No, why the hell would Beyoncé attend the Ark Pub gala. Then again, why would Carly Rae attend the Ark Pub gala? Oh my God, do you think Beyoncé is attending???)_

_(I’ve always wondered, how DO you miss someone so bad BEFORE they came into your life? It’s BEFORE you even met them. You can’t miss someone you’ve never met. Was Carly Rae just being abstract?)_

_\- Clarke_

 

 

**28 th September 2016, 8.46am**

**From: bellamyblake@mail.com**

**To: cgriffin@mail.com**

 

 

_Clarke,_

_These chapters have been really blazing past me. I might be done with chapter 28 in a day or two. Hopefully, you’ll have new pages to work off of within the next couple of weeks._

_Don’t say I didn’t warn you when my edits turn Mairi into a pot dealer and Robb and Elise into star-crossed llamas. Or, at the very least, bring Rashard back to life. (Not going to happen, but we can all dream. What’s your experience with drawing llamas like?)_

_If it makes ME happy. Sure. Let’s both pretend you don’t jump at literally any excuse to draw Robb. Have I mentioned how many adolescent girls actively crush on your illustrations of fictional characters?_

_Let’s both also pretend that you didn’t just say the W-word in reference to my baby sister. I may not be young, but I’m definitely too young to die._

_Carly Rae Jepsen is PERFORMING at the Ark Pub gala. No idea about Beyoncé. But I really don’t think so, considering she’s got a show in Philadelphia the same night. Not that I checked her tour schedule or anything._

_You’re at our table, by the way. Number 11, in case you missed the email while you were on vacation. Attached the details for you._

_I don’t know what song you’re referring to there._

_(Maybe she meant the FEELING of having them in her life. Like the way sunflowers instinctively grow towards the sun. Without it, they just grow kind of… haywire. All bent out of shape and stuff.)_

_\- Bellamy_

 

 

 

* * *

 

  

 

It’s always been easy enough for Bellamy to explain the things he’s seen and been through.

 

He can describe, easily enough, the hollow feeling that used to clang in his gut whenever he saw other kids with their dads.

 

He can quantify, easily enough, the sinking, freezing numbness that had spread through his entire being the day the last breath passed Aurora’s lips.

 

He can narrate, easily enough, the backbreaking struggle of trying to put himself through college and raise his freshly teenaged sister, working three jobs through four years of school just so he’d never have to touch a penny of the meagre savings their mother had left behind. When the time came, Octavia _would_ have a chance to earn her own degree, _would_ have the education she deserved, even if it killed him.

 

That’s what he does. He describes, quantifies, narrates. He experiences things — feels them, sees them, and puts them into words. That’s his art.

 

But _damn_ if he knows where to start when it comes to defining his relationship with Clarke Griffin.

 

They work together, but they’re not _just_ colleagues.

 

They know almost everything about each other, but they’re not best friends.

 

They _flirt_ sometimes.

 

He’d pretended it wasn’t flirting at first, but after seeing her in that black dress at the Ark Pub party two years ago…

 

Oh, yeah. He’s _very_ attracted to her, and not just for her skill with a pencil and paper.

 

He’s not blind, either. He knows what sexual interest looks like on a female. Clarke had definitely been looking very sexually interested in him that night.

 

(Okay, fine. Maybe he’d spent the next two days steeping himself in denial, until a suggestive comment in one of her subsequent emails had confirmed it for him.)

 

So yeah, they flirt and tease and provoke each other sometimes… but they’re not _dating_.

 

What are they?

 

Fuck if he knows.

 

All he knows is that she’s his favourite person in the world to talk to, even if it’s just some words exchanged over the Internet.

 

And that she taps her pencil on her sketchbook when she’s thinking particularly hard.

 

And that her sense of humour is drier than a desert.

 

And that her hair never seems to want to stay where she’s pinned it in place.

 

And that she’s the only one better than Murphy at pointing out holes in his narrative arcs.

 

And that she purses her lips ever so slightly whenever she hears something she doesn’t completely agree with.

 

And that she prefers white wine to champagne.

 

And that she’s practically incapable of making a compliment without it sounding like the most matter-of-fact thing on earth.

 

And that the certain shade of blue she’d worn to their first official meeting had made the blue in her eyes so much sharper, so much _bluer_.

 

And that the very first time he’d seen her art had been the very first time he’d really, _genuinely_ felt his little book could _be_ something.

 

What is Clarke Griffin to him? What is he to her?

 

Fuck if he knows.

 

But for once in his life, he’s feeling like the Ark Pub gala can’t come soon enough.

 

 

 

* * *

 

 

  

**29 th September 2016, 9.58pm**

**From: cgriffin@mail.com**

**To: bellamyblake@mail.com**

 

 

_Bellamy,_

_IS there pot in the_ Clans _‘verse? I didn’t think marijuana could grow in such volatile conditions. Unless the jobi nuts from Book #1 are the_ Clans _equivalent of pot. Is Mairi looking at a career dealing jobi nuts?_

_Unfortunately, my experience with drawing llamas is, at best, limited. I’ve attached a rough sketch for you. Robb and Elise as star-crossed llama lovers, as requested._

_It’s not my fault that Robb’s my favorite to draw. You’re the one who let me come up with at least 85% of his physical appearance._

_You have mentioned the adolescent girls, yes. Thanks for the Twitter mentions, by the way. They’ve been flocking to my feed in droves. Mostly yelling about how Robb is “so unbelievably hot”, and all the things they’d let him do to them in the bedroom. I try not to read the messages too closely._

_You’re literally the only person who would think of “the W-word” as a bad thing. I mean, I usually think that too, but not when the people getting married ACTUALLY love each other. Especially the way Octavia and Lincoln do._

_Thanks for the gala info. My flight leaves in ten hours and I still haven’t started packing. Gonna be a fun night._

_Hey, do me a favor. Drag me along when Octavia drags you to your photo op with Carly Rae Jepsen. I promised a friend I’d get an autograph._

_It’s alright, Bellamy. I’ve known you were a Beyoncé fan since you said that thing about ‘4’ being her most underrated album._

_(Yeah, okay. A sense of missing as in lacking. That seems more like it.)_

_\- Clarke_

 

**30 th September 2016, 12:35am**

**From: bellamyblake@mail.com**

**To: cgriffin@mail.com**

 

 

_Clarke,_

_Mairi could deal nuts, sure. She was practically doing it in chapter 8 anyway. She could be the first jobi nut kingpin of the_ Clans _’verse._

_I’ll refrain from comment on the Robbise llama sketch. You should just know that I’ve spent the last ten minutes laughing to myself, alone in my bed._

_Yeah, I try not to pay too close attention to the particularly hormonal tweets, either. Especially not after you RT’d that one with the picture where someone photoshopped glasses onto Robb’s face and yelled about how he basically looks like me, only with a sharper chin and longer hair. I need to be able to disassociate myself from all the things my teenaged, female readers want to do with him in their bedrooms._

_Okay, alright. I don’t think the W-word is a bad thing. I just haven’t worked out how I’m supposed to go from thinking of Octavia as my baby sister to thinking of her as… Lincoln’s wife._

_Please try your best to avoid missing your flight. Jaha’s speech will be infinitely more boring without your colorful commentary. Also, you have to make sure I don’t spend twenty minutes rambling on and on to Carly Rae Jepsen about how it’s possible/impossible to miss someone before they ever even came into your life._

_I’ve said it before, and I’ll say it again: “I don’t know much about guns but I’ve been shot by you” is the most romantic line sung in a song, ever. Because guns._

_Let me know when you’re in town._

_\- Bellamy_

 

 

 

* * *

 

 

 

He doesn’t even flinch at the sound of the apartment door banging open.

 

“I _swear_ to God, Bell, I _told_ you to be ready by—”

 

Octavia charges into his living room and instantly pulls up short, frozen mid-rant as she stares down at him.

 

“You’re dressed,” she observes blandly.

 

He raises a brow. “You told me to be ready by six-thirty.” He gestures at the clock on the wall. “It’s six-thirty. I’m ready.” He pauses. “Voilà.”

 

She scoffs, planting her hands on her hips. “Don’t give me that shit. Nine times out of ten, I’ve to personally bully you into a suit.” She squints at him, eyes narrowing suspiciously. “What gives?”

 

He sighs, turning back to his computer where it’s perched on his lap. “I get the third degree when I _don’t_ get dressed on time, I get the third degree when I do. Is there a scenario in which I _don’t_ get the third degree?”

 

“Yes,” Octavia says flatly. “The one in which you tell me what the hell’s up.”

 

“Nothing is up,” he says, infusing a note of patronising patience into his tone as he closes the tab with his email inbox open. “Where’s Lincoln?”

 

Octavia’s gaze stays narrowed and focused on him for one long moment — and then she shrugs. “Parking the car. I told him to come up because I assumed you’d still be in sweatpants.”

 

“Great, thanks,” he replies, setting his laptop on the coffee table.

 

She rolls her eyes. “He needs to use the bathroom, anyway. We’ll have plenty of time either way — I made sure to allocate an extra thirty minutes for the whole wrestling-you-into-proper-clothes part.”

 

Bellamy sighs, but he can’t stop the smile tugging at the corners of his mouth. “Honestly? I’m just flattered you thought I’d last thirty minutes.”

 

 

 

* * *

 

 

 

 

**30 th September 2016, 1:22pm**

**From: cgriffin@mail.com**

**To: bellamyblake@mail.com**

 

 

_Bellamy,_

_I’m in the city. Stopped off on the way from the airport to grab lunch. I’m full, and sticky, and tired, and oh my God has it always been this warm in New York??_

_Gonna crash for a few hours before attempting to deal with my hair. Glad I can always count on cabin air to do wonders for my frizz situation. (My frizztuation?)_

_\- Clarke_

  

 

**30 th September 2016, 6:14pm**

**From: bellamyblake@mail.com**

**To: cgriffin@mail.com**

 

 

_Clarke,_

_Good to hear Wells is feeding you, at least. Then again, he’d probably feed his own father’s killer if it came down to it. (Food for thought: Wells vs. Rashard, nobility showdown?)_

_Heading out in a bit. Just waiting for Octavia and Lincoln._

_See you soon._

_\- Bellamy_

 

 

 

* * *

 

 

 

 

Bellamy doesn’t get nervous a lot.

 

He gets scared a lot. Frustrated, a lot more. He gets stressed out and worked up.

 

He rarely gets sad. But when he does, it’s pretty much the worst, because it’s never been in his nature to stop fighting and just sink down into his emotions.

 

But _nervous_ is not a state of being he’s well acquainted with, at all.

 

Mostly because he’s never really had anything to be nervous _about_. He’s never been the smartest, or the best-looking, or the most popular. He’s never had much to lose, or much to gain.

 

The most distinct memories he has of being really, properly nervous all revolve around his mother, his sister, and his writing. When Aurora decided to stop chemotherapy. Octavia’s first day of middle school — and her first day of high school, too. The day he’d first met with Miller to discuss a publishing deal.

 

That’s pretty much it. His entire history with nervousness. Done.

 

The thing is, in order to get nervous, you’ve to _care_ — and beyond his family and his words, Bellamy’s never really cared about much else.

 

But here he is, thirty years old, standing in the lobby of a fancy hotel clad in a sharp suit and tie, and feeling about as jumpy as a jackrabbit.

 

Jesus Christ.

 

“Okay, all signed in,” Octavia reports upon returning from the reception booth set up by the ballroom doors. She squints at the little card given to her by the fresh-faced young man at the booth. “We could just go in and find our table now, it’s number—”

 

“Eleven,” Bellamy finishes absently, too preoccupied with scanning the lobby to notice two stares fixed on him. He looks between his sister and her boyfriend, brows furrowing on his forehead. “What? It was on the _email_.”

 

“Uh huh,” is all Octavia has to say, her gaze sliding to Lincoln’s. He meets it with a ready smile, wordless and knowing.

 

Bellamy shakes his head. “I hate third-wheeling,” he grouses as he starts for the open ballroom doors.

 

Even so, he’s thankful for the couple flanking him as he enters the large hall. Having them present means that whenever someone comes up to him to say hi, he gets to spend at least half of the conversation either introducing or re-introducing them to Octavia and Lincoln. He’s never much liked being the centre of attention, and having the couple present to take some of it away from him is enough for him to make a mental note to get them something extra nice for Christmas.

 

Octavia blows a breath out as Diana Sydney walks away, flashing them one last facetious smile.

 

“Never liked that woman,” she says, half-glaring after the board member’s departure.

 

“Neither does the board,” Lincoln says mildly, one arm winding round Octavia’s waist. “Rumour has it they’re planning to vote her out before the year’s done.”

 

“Good,” Bellamy says shortly, turning away from her. He doesn’t know all that much about Ark Pub politics, but he _does_ know that if it hadn’t been for Sydney, Miller would have been promoted to Senior Editor a year or two ago.

 

“This is us,” Octavia announces. “Table eleven.”

 

Lincoln leans in to brush his lips across her cheek. “I’ll catch up with you later.”

 

The couple exchange soft smiles, Octavia giving his hand one last squeeze before releasing it. Bellamy watches his sister watch Lincoln walk off to his own seat, a couple tables away.

 

It’s only when Lincoln slides into his chair that Octavia blinks, and tears her gaze away. Beside him, the stern-faced Indra flashes the barest hint of a smile in greeting. It’s brief, but Bellamy knows full well that coming from her, it’s the closest to _‘I love you’_ anyone’s ever going to get.

 

Not for the first time, Bellamy feels a rush of gratitude towards Indra for the way she’d snapped up Lincoln’s illustration services when he himself had rejected the artist four years ago.

 

It wasn’t that Lincoln hadn’t been good enough for Bellamy’s needs. It’s just that Clarke’s art had somehow managed to speak to him, far louder than anything in any of the other portfolios submitted to him by Miller.

 

“What time is it?” he asks absently, letting his gaze drift away from Lincoln and Indra.

 

“Seven forty-fi— nope, seven fifty,” Octavia says, frowning at her phone display. “Fifty-eight, to be exact.” She casts around the room. “Maybe we should have mingled a little more.”

 

“It’s supposed to start at eight,” Bellamy says, glancing at the large double doors leading to the lobby.

 

Octavia scoffs. “Yeah, these things _never_ start when they’re supposed to. You _really_ never pay much attention, do you, Bell?”

 

He’s about to make a deliberately flippant response, just to rile his sister up — not like they’ve got anything better to do for the next ten minutes, anyway — when he’s interrupted by the sound of his name.

 

“There he is!” the voice continues booming as he turns around, already half-scrambling to get out of his chair to greet—

 

“President Kane,” he says, trying not to sound as breathless as he feels. “It’s good to—”

 

The rest of the sentence dies off in his throat when he glances to the person at Kane’s side.

 

“See you,” he finishes lamely, staring helplessly. He shakes his head, forcing his gaze to swing back to Kane. “Sir.”

 

Kane grins warmly, grasping Bellamy’s hand in greeting. “Come, now, Bellamy, how many times have I told you? None of that ‘sir’ business — it’s Marcus, please.”

 

Bellamy forces himself to smile at Kane — _Kane_ , not his companion. “If you insist, Marcus,” he says, his teeth bared in a grin that’s only half-feigned.

 

“I do,” Kane tells him, a twinkle in his eye as he turns to Octavia. “Ah, Miss Blake. Looking as dangerous as ever.”

 

“Please, boss,” Octavia says, shaking Kane’s hand with a playful grin. “It’s Octavia. I insist.”

 

Kane readily laughs at that, the corners of his eyes crinkling in amusement. “I would expect nothing less,” he says, looking over the Blakes with a wide smile before gesturing to his companion. “I hope you don’t mind, but I happened to run into your illustrator on the way in.”

 

Beside him, Clarke Griffin shrugs, lifting the glass of champagne in her hand with an impish grin. “I just stuck with him because all the waiters go for the big dogs.”

 

That provokes another hearty laugh from Kane, Octavia joining in easily. It takes half a second for Bellamy to catch up, his processing skills temporarily stuck.

 

Kane nods at the smartly dressed woman who leans in to whisper in his ear. “And that’s my cue to go,” he says amiably to the other three. “Enjoy yourselves. Looking forward to a good chat with you two later,” he adds, flashing them one last approving grin before moving away, his assistant following closely at his side.

 

Leaving Bellamy alone with his sister, and—

 

“Hi,” Clarke says, smiling up at him. Her eyes seem to shine even brighter through her smokey makeup, her face perfectly framed by gentle curls of blonde.

 

“Hi,” he remembers to say, staring at her. He knows he should stop, but he just _can’t_.

 

“Clarke fucking Griffin!” Octavia exclaims, stepping forward to wrap the blonde in a big hug. “It’s been _years_.”

 

“Hello, Octavia,” Clarke laughs, carefully returning the embrace as best as she can with a full champagne glass in one hand and a small black clutch in the other. “Congratulations on moving in with Lincoln, by the way.”

 

“ _Thank_ you,” Octavia says pointedly, pulling back to jab her elbow into her brother’s ribs. “At least _some_ one around here knows how to properly respond to _happy_ news.”

 

“I got you guys a toaster oven,” Bellamy grumbles, shoving his hands into his pockets.

 

Octavia rolls her eyes. “ _So_ sentimental,” she says, before flashing Clarke another wide grin. “I’m gonna go say hi to Indra. Back in a bit!”

 

And off she goes.

 

Leaving Bellamy alone.

 

With Clarke.

 

“Hi,” he says. Again.

 

“Hi,” she says slowly, her lips curving with a smile. “You okay?”

 

“Yep,” he says, a little _too_ quickly.

 

She cocks her head. “Should we just get our phones out and stick to texting for the rest of the night or something?”

 

That finally loosens him up enough to bark a laugh. “It’s fine,” he says, the smile lingering on his face. “Sorry, I just—” He gestures vaguely with one hand, and then gives up searching for the right words. “You look great.”

 

She presses her lips together, as if clamping down on some secret amusement. “Two bestselling books, over a million copies sold, and the only description Bellamy Blake comes up with is ‘great’.”

 

He shrugs, feeling a surge of heat bloom up the back of his neck. “Well, I didn’t think it would be entirely appropriate to go with ‘you look like the morning sun as it rises in a balmy midsummer sky’.”

 

For some reason, she doesn’t seem surprised or put off by his unexpected almost-ramble. Instead, she seems… _flattered_?

 

“Well, in that case,” she says after a moment, her blue gaze roving over him, “you look pretty great yourself.”

 

He’s saved from having to answer by the master of ceremonies calling for everyone to take their seats so the evening can begin. He’s not sure if the feeling surging through his gut is made up more of relief, or disappointment.

 

But he swallows it down, and summons up a smile as he pulls Clarke’s chair out for her.

 

The smile she flashes at him in return is the first time he’s ever had the urge to describe something happening to him in real life as ‘breathtaking’.

 

 

 

* * *

 

 

 

**4 th April 2016, 1:41am**

**From: bellamyblake@mail.com**

**To: cgriffin@mail.com**

 

_Don’t take the deal._

 

 

**4 th April 2016, 1:44am**

**From: cgriffin@mail.com**

**To: bellamyblake@mail.com**

 

_Bellamy,_

_What deal?_

  

 

**4 th April 2016, 1:46am**

**From: bellamyblake@mail.com**

**To: cgriffin@mail.com**

 

_I know Polis Books offered you the Grounder Queen series. Don’t take it._

 

 

 

**4 th April 2016, 1:49am**

**From: cgriffin@mail.com**

**To: bellamyblake@mail.com**

  

_Why?_

 

 

 

 

**4 th April 2016, 1:54am**

**From: bellamyblake@mail.com**

**To: cgriffin@mail.com**

 

_You can’t go back to her._

 

 

 

 

**4 th April 2016, 1:57am**

**From: cgriffin@mail.com**

**To: bellamyblake@mail.com**

  

_A job’s a job, Bellamy._

 

**4 th April 2016, 1:59am**

**From: bellamyblake@mail.com**

**To: cgriffin@mail.com**

 

_Lexa doesn’t want to work with you._

_Lexa doesn’t want to work with anybody._

_She just wants your art. She’ll take it for herself._

_That’s what she does._

 

 

  

**4 th April 2016, 2:07am**

**From: cgriffin@mail.com**

**To: bellamyblake@mail.com**

 

_It’s late, Bellamy. Go to bed._

 

* * *

 

 

“Blah, blah, blah,” Miller mutters under his breath as Thelonious Jaha drones on and on at the podium. “Fuckin’ shoot me already.”

 

“I have a BB gun in my purse,” Clarke whispers, perfectly straight-faced as she leans into Bellamy’s shoulder so Miller can hear her. “It’s small, but with the right angle, you could achieve a mild concussion at the very least.”

 

“I call first dibs on that,” Octavia grumbles from Clarke’s other side.

 

“Goddammit,” Miller says forlornly, turning back to the stage with all the enthusiasm of a criminal on death row.

 

Bellamy forces himself not to sway into Clarke as she pulls back from him, sitting upright in her seat.

 

He still hasn’t quite decided if he’s feeling grateful or resentful towards his sister for having switched seats with Clarke. He supposes it _does_ make sense, considering Octavia’s restlessness and her tendency to never stay in one place for too long without periodic bouts of wandering off.

 

That, _and_ she just can’t seem to go without physical contact with Lincoln for more than twenty minutes at a stretch. So, yeah, it’d be weird if there was just an empty seat between him and Clarke half the night.

 

But still.

 

It _especially_ doesn’t help that almost all the speeches have been flat-out _boring_. Of course no one would do him a favour by distracting him with something actually interesting or entertaining. As if he isn’t already hyper-aware enough of Clarke’s bare arm brushing into his covered one, or the faint scent of whatever perfume she’s wearing drifting into his space.

 

(He can’t quite make out the scent clearly enough to identify its distinct notes, but it’s fucking _intoxicating_ nonetheless.)

 

Thankfully, Jaha wraps it up soon enough, and the master of ceremonies bounds back onstage, pretending to clap along with everybody else in the room.

 

“Our CEO, Mr. Thelonious Jaha, ladies and gentlemen!” the MC announces, gesturing grandly. “And now, we’ll be screening a short video tribute, looking back on some of Ark Publishing’s finest moments over the last one hundred years!”

 

Bellamy startles at the light touch on his knee.

 

“I think Miller could use these before he passes out into his champagne,” Clarke says, keeping her voice low as she extends a pack of mints towards him.

 

“Oh,” he says, taking the pack. “Right.” He passes it on accordingly, watching Miller’s face melting with overwhelming relief and gratitude as the editor grabs hold of the pack with both hands.

 

“You sure you’re okay?” Clarke asks, her head cocking curiously.

 

He clears his throat, taking the pack back from Miller to hand it back to her. “Yeah,” he says, forcing himself to remain still as her fingers brush against his. “Yeah, I’m fine.”

 

 

 

* * *

 

 

 

 

**10 th April 2016, 10:29am**

**From: bellamyblake@mail.com**

**To: cgriffin@mail.com**

 

_Clarke,_

_Here’s the final draft, finalized even more finally than the last two final drafts. This is the official copy that’s going to print at the end of the week, so this is It with a capital I._

_Thank you for your time. As always, it’s been a great pleasure working with you. Have a good break; you deserve it._

_Until Book #3._

_\- Bellamy_

 

 

 

**11 th April 2016, 9:43pm**

**From: cgriffin@mail.com**

**To: bellamyblake@mail.com**

 

 

_Bellamy,_

_Everything looks absolutely wonderful. I’m so excited and happy for you, this book is going to do really well._

_Thank you for continuing to work with me. I truly am grateful to have the honor of creating this magical world with you._

_Enjoy your break. Rest well._

_\- Clarke_

_P.S.: I didn’t take the deal._

* * *

 

For most of the evening, Bellamy thinks he’s doing pretty well.

 

And then Octavia darts off to canoodle with Lincoln, Miller disappears to ‘network’ (which is just code for doing shots with some other editors), and all of a sudden, he finds himself alone with Clarke. Again.

“I saw Luna somewhere around,” Bellamy says, once he’s cleared his throat to avoid any awkward cracking.

 

“Yeah, we caught up a bit in the lobby,” Clarke says, smiling over the rim of her champagne glass.

 

He nods, trying to smooth out the jerks in his movements. “You guys are okay now, right? I mean, after the whole…” He gestures vaguely with his hands.

 

Clarke laughs. “Yeah, we are. I mean, we talked it out, and it was awkward for a few days… but it’s fine now.” She pauses, squinting in contemplation. “We’ve reached an understanding.”

 

“‘An understanding’,” Bellamy echoes, his brow lifting.

 

She rolls her eyes. “I’m not a writer. I can’t think of a less clichéd way to describe it, okay?” she says, the corners of her lips curving upward. “But yes, an _understanding_. She’s very talented. _The Last Nightblood_ is going to do well, I think.” Her smile veers just a little in the direction of sly. “Not as well as _The Twelve Clans_ , of course.”

 

Bellamy ducks his head, unable to help his sheepish grin at the praise. “You don’t have to say that just because I’m your biggest source of income at the moment.”

 

“I’m not just saying that,” Clarke says, the smile fading slightly from her face. “You’re my favourite writer, Bellamy. You inspire me, every single day.”

 

Bellamy stares at her. He feels like he’s being snared so tightly, so wholly by the deep blues of her eyes that he’s hardly able to breathe.

 

After a few long beats, a familiar glint appears in Clarke’s gaze.

 

“That, _and_ you’re my biggest source of income at the moment,” she adds, flashing him an impish smirk as she reaches for her champagne glass once more.

 

* * *

 

 

 

 

**27 th May 2016, 3:18pm **

**From: cgriffin@mail.com**

**To: bellamyblake@mail.com**

 

_Bellamy,_

_Congratulations on the release. #1 on the Times’ bestsellers list – not too shabby at all, Blake. I’m sorry I couldn’t make it to the Ark Pub party._

_I think I might have just gotten into a fight with my new author-partner. Believe it or not, I don’t usually do that a lot._

_She said my art ‘lacks compassion’. She’s not wrong… at least I don’t think so. I don’t know why, but it just kind of got to me._

_Why can’t all writers just be like you._

_Hope you’re having a good break._

_\- Clarke_

 

 

 

**27 th May 2016, 10:11pm**

**From: bellamyblake@mail.com**

**To: cgriffin@mail.com**

 

 

_Clarke,_

_Thank you for the congrats. Yeah, it could probably have gone a lot worse. I think people out there might actually like our stuff. Go figure._

_It’s alright. You’re busy. There’s always another Ark Pub party, anyway. (Miller says there’s going to be a huge thing sometime in September or October. For the company’s 100 th anniversary. Invitations should go out in a couple months, but here’s a heads-up. Now you’ve plenty of time to plan ahead.)_

_‘Lacks compassion’? Pfft. Tell her to pick up a copy of The Times. That Dante Wallace guy spends at least two full paragraphs of his review JUST raving on about your illustrations. Almost made me feel a little left out._

_No, but seriously — your art is technical and detailed, but that’s what gives it that edge of character. Making something pretty isn’t the only way to make it beautiful._

_Try not to take it personally. Writers can get extremely possessive over their own nonsensical ramblings. (Not that I need to tell you that, after all the arguments we’ve had over how tall Robb should be.)_

_Hope you’re enjoying your break too. Well, clearly not, seeing as you’ve jumped right into working with Luna. I know she’s tough, but hang in there. Heard some awesome things about her. It’ll be worth it._

_\- Bellamy_

_P.S.: I hope I’m not rubbing salt in your current situation… but I’m really, really glad I won’t have to work with some other artist/illustrator. For the last instalment of_ Clans _, I mean._

* * *

 

 

 

 

“Ah, the dream team!”

 

Bellamy blinks, barely registering who it is that’s walking up to them before hastily pushing up and out of his chair.

 

“Hello, sir— _Marcus_ ,” he corrects himself at the sight of the president’s pointedly arched brow.

 

“Yes, hello, Sir Marcus,” Clarke says, tone dripping with playful teasing as she stands gracefully beside him. “You’ve disguised your British accent impeccably.”

 

Kane laughs, clapping a hand to Bellamy’s shoulder as the writer tries and fails to suppress a wide smile. Realising his shortfall, he half-heartedly tries to turn it into one of exasperated chagrin instead.

 

“I can’t tell you how proud we are of you two,” Kane says, beaming down at them. “ _Clans_ has done far better than we could have expected or even imagined. Astounding work, the both of you.”

 

“Thank you, si— Marcus,” Bellamy says, a flush blooming up his neck. He’s not entirely sure if it’s because of the president’s praise, or the gentle, encouraging nudge of Clarke’s elbow into his. “It’s an honour to be working with you. All the support we’ve received from Ark Pub has been a huge part of _Clans_ ’ success.”

 

“Thank you for continuing to take a chance on us,” Clarke adds, flashing a perfect, pearly smile at Kane.

 

“No, no,” Kane says, shaking his head with a sanguine smile. “Thank you both for sticking with us. We look forward to having you in the Ark family for a long, long time.”

 

Bellamy’s heart almost skips a beat. He’d known that he was doing well with Ark, of course — but he’d honestly doubted whether another publishing deal would come along so soon. It had just seemed far too incredible a prospect, too wonderful to be true.

 

He almost misses the way Clarke’s hand comes up to grasp at his forearm, fingers squeezing just above the inside of his wrist with a pressure that’s steadying, grounding.

 

“That’s very kind of you, Marcus,” he hears her say, her husky tone pitched with a new edge of enthusiasm. “We look forward to exploring this partnership even further.”

 

“Of course, of course,” Kane says with a firm nod. “I hope you’re just as eager to explore _this_ partnership even further!”

 

Bellamy blinks at the brief gesture Kane makes towards himself and Clarke. “I— sorry?”

 

Kane chuckles, clapping him on the shoulder yet again. “Come on, now, Bellamy. This is a creative pairing for the record books. We wouldn’t _dream_ of splitting the two of you up!”

 

“Thank you, Marcus,” Clarke’s voice seems to say from miles away.

 

She continues speaking, but he misses it completely through the maelstrom of his own thoughts. Truth be told, the maelstrom comprises much more of raw emotion than actual coherent _thought_.

 

By the time he regains his hearing, Kane is nodding, apparently fully satisfied with whatever Clarke’s said.

 

“Good, good,” he says with a wide, jovial grin. His gaze slips from them, flicking over to another table. “And now, I really should go chat with some of the big dogs.”

 

He scrunches his nose conspiratorially at them, and they both laugh on impulse — as if they haven’t just heard the _president_ of the _company_ use the term ‘big dogs’ on some other random folk.

 

(Random folk with huge ass pocketbooks, most probably. But, _still_.)

 

Kane turns back to Bellamy, a gleam of amusement in his eye as the two men shake hands. “You tell that sister of yours that there’s always a spot on our talent management team waiting for her.”

 

“I have,” Bellamy says wryly. “But I will tell her, yes. It’s about time some other writer gets to live under her thumb too.”

 

Kane laughs as he exchanges a handshake with Clarke. It’s genuine and hearty, and it echoes in Bellamy’s head as he watches the president’s departing back.

 

Clarke bounces on the balls of her feet, practically buzzing with excitement. “Marcus Kane just offered us another publishing deal.”

 

He blinks, dazed. “Marcus Kane just offered us another publishing deal… _together_.”

 

The sound that escapes Clarke’s throat is somewhere between a squeal and a yelp, but he instantly loses interest in defining it when she throws her arms around his neck, pressing up on the tips of her toes so her body is flush against his.

 

He reels, too stunned to even blink — but then his arms wrap around her, pulling her impossibly closer to anchor her against him.

 

And, yeah, maybe he takes the chance to bury his nose in her hair a little. He can’t _help_ it. Not when he finally gets to _hold_ her in his arms like this, after four years of non-stop emailing. Not when she smells like fresh paper and _that perfume_ , which is something that he can only describe as the lovechild of vanilla and jasmine.

 

He’s really, really glad that she doesn’t pull away after the usual second or two. Instead, she holds on just a little tighter.

 

Her breath falls on the skin of his neck that’s rising out of his starched collar, warm and heady, and yeah — yeah. He could definitely get used to this whole hugging-Clarke-Griffin thing.

 

 

 

* * *

 

 

 

**28 th May 2016, 1:34pm **

**From: cgriffin@mail.com**

**To: bellamyblake@mail.com**

 

_Bellamy,_

_People like YOUR stuff. Not only that, they love it. Sometimes to an extent that borders on unhealthy territory. Don’t google ‘Twelve Clans fanfiction’. (Or do, whatever. All I can tell you is that it’s an Experience — capital ‘e’.)_

_Thanks for the heads-up. Just marked my calendar for ‘sometime in September or October’. Glad that’s settled._

_Hahah. Did you know Dante Wallace has an art history degree? That’s why he’s my favorite reviewer._

_I am trying. You do have a right to be protective. You’ve poured so much of your heart and soul into your work. The last thing you need is some artist swanning in with all these OPINIONS. (Even if they ARE valid ones. Maybe not entirely necessary… but valid.)_

_I think I’m just too used to working with you. You’ve spoiled me for all other writers. I hope you’re proud of yourself._

_Luna is tough. But she’s fair, and she’s graceful about her principles. She doesn’t try to impose them on me or anything. I just wish I could be as calm and chill as her all the time. Maybe then my art would be more ‘compassionate’._

_I’m kidding. Mostly._

_Thank you. For telling me exactly what I needed to hear._

_\- Clarke_

 

 

 

**28 th May 2016, 8:54pm**

**From: bellamyblake@mail.com**

**To: cgriffin@mail.com**

 

 

_Clarke,_

_I googled it. You shouldn’t have told me about it, but you did. And I shouldn’t have done it, but I did. I googled it._

_And it was not an Experience, Clarke. It was an ORDEAL. Capital everything._

_(WHY is there so much Robb/Rashard material?! People realize they’re brothers-in-law, right??)_

_That explains why I barely understood anything Wallace said in those two paragraphs. I usually just look for the little stars rating things at the end, anyway. I’m a writer. I’m deep that way._

_I do pour my heart and soul into my writing. But you pour your heart and soul into your illustrations, too. And, honestly, you have no idea how much I rely on your artwork to keep me going. Everything in these books — Robb, Elise, the morality struggle, the entire_ Clans _’verse — everything is just thoughts floating round in my mind that somehow turns into words._

_But when I see your art, Clarke, it becomes_ real _. It’s in front of me, something I can see with my eyes instead of just in my head. That’s why it’s OUR stuff — our work, not just mine._

_I’m glad you’re working with other writers. I’m proud of what we create together, but I’m really fucking proud of you, too. You deserve every chance at success._

_… But hey, no complaints from me if I’m still your favorite. You already know you’re mine._

_\- Bellamy_

 

* * *

 

 

 

By the time they’re tripping out of the hotel lobby and onto the sidewalk, they’re both flushed and giddy.

 

It’s a little bit of everything, really — the praise from Kane and several other higher-ups, the good food, the chit-chat with the rest of the “Ark family” (a term Clarke has officially latched on to), the drinks, _more_ drinks, the dancing (which was actually _fun_ , and not awkward like he’d thought it’d be). After all, he got to watch Indra bopping to a kicky pop beat, Miller attempting — and butchering — the moonwalk, _and_ his little sister being swung about in wide arcs by Lincoln, both of them grinning so big he could actually feel his heart swelling in his chest.

 

Also, he got to slow dance with Clarke to some heady, atmospheric acoustic number. So, yeah. Definitely not a bad time.

 

“I still can’t believe you know _all_ the lyrics to ‘Call Me Maybe’,” Clarke says, laughter bubbling between her words. “I mean, I _knew_ it. But I can’t _believe_ it.”

 

Bellamy shakes his head, grinning as she’s set off again, her weight swaying into his side with the force of her giggles. “It’s different when you’re hearing it live, okay?” he argues blithely. “It just _gets_ to you.”

 

“I’m surprised you didn’t quote the lyrics to Carly Rae herself,” Clarke says, scrunching her nose playfully. “‘Hey, I just met you, and this is crazy, but here’s my phone… let’s take a selfie’.”

 

He can’t help but laugh at that, at the look of triumph on her face when she actually makes a passable rhyme. “Not bad, Griffin,” he says. “Not bad at all. Maybe we should switch jobs.”

 

She snorts. “I’ve seen you draw. You can’t even get stick figures right.”

 

“I just want them to have humanoid proportions,” he argues, unable to keep the grin off his face when she dissolves into another fit of laughter.

 

He blinks at the sudden buzzing sensation along his thigh, before pulling out his phone to squint at the text alert on his screen.

 

 _‘get ur own ride,’_ Octavia’s message reads. _‘we left 10 min ago. NO U DONT WANT 2 KNOW WHY.’_

“Ew,” he says aloud.

 

Clarke frowns, pushing her bangs out of her eyes to peer up at him. “What?”

 

Bellamy shakes his head, lifting one hand to rake a hand through his hair. “Nothing I want to say out loud,” he says with a grimace, angling the phone towards her.

 

Her features rumple in concentration, her hair falls forward, and his hand is already moving to brush it back from her face before he can even register it.

 

Thankfully, she doesn’t seem to mind much, looking up to return his grimace with a bright grin.

 

“Would it help if I brought up the W-word right now?”

 

“Definitely not,” he says instantly, his hand moving down to rest lightly on the middle of her back. “Come on, let’s get you a cab. We don’t want Wells to worry.”

 

“He won’t,” she says easily, moving with him to the roadside. “He’s probably already asleep. No eighteen-hour creative benders for him.”

 

“Which means no creative hangovers either,” Bellamy supplies. “Good for him.”

 

“Which means we should get a drink,” she says suddenly, straightening on her feet.

 

“We’ve _had_ a drink,” he reminds her, the corners of his lips curving in amusement. “More than one, in case you forgot.”

 

She rolls her eyes, lightly rapping the back of her hand to his shoulder. “ _Another_ drink, genius. I thought you writers were supposed to be good with reading between the lines.”

 

“To be fair, you weren’t being at all subtle about wanting a drink,” he says dryly, already racking his brain for somewhere they can go. “So I probably just suck at reading the lines.”

 

“Actually, you just suck at both,” she informs him, a teasing smirk on her face.

 

He shrugs nonchalantly. “Or that. I’m trying to think of a bar we can go, but everywhere I usually go is about to close in an hour or so.”

 

She wrinkles her nose. “What kind of places do you usually go to?”

 

“The kind that doesn’t make me worry about picking up questionable diseases.”

 

“Oh, so just like, two places in New York, then,” she says cheerfully.

 

“Pretty much,” he says with a grin, glancing at his watch before looking up again. “We could try Grounders? But they’re almost always packed out, so if you don’t mind—”

 

“Do you have booze at home?” she demands.

 

He blinks. “Yeah— yeah, some.”

 

“Well, then, let’s just go there,” she says with a shrug, like it’s the most obvious thing in the world. “We haven’t been paying for drinks all night. Why start now?”

 

He blinks — again. “Yeah,” he says slowly, nodding. “Yeah, okay.”

 

And that’s how he finds himself in a cab with Clarke Griffin.

 

The alcohol is still in his system, giving him a pleasant buzz all throughout the mostly silent cab ride that mutes any awkwardness for them both.

 

But once they’re in the elevator headed up to his floor, it’s dissipated enough that the nervousness is creeping its way back into his head, making him shift his weight from one foot to the other, back and forth, about a total of nine times throughout the short ride up.

 

“You’re fidgety,” Clarke observes, as he tries to focus on sliding his key into the lock on the first go.

 

“ _You’re_ fidgety,” he mutters under his breath, holding back the urge to sigh in relief when he _does_ manage to get it on the first go.

 

“Nice,” she says, a little saucily. “Seriously, you’ve been fidgety all night. Are you _sure_ you’re okay?”

 

He leads the way into his apartment, fumbling blindly for the light switch by the door. “Sorry, yeah,” he says, his ears reddening as she brushes past him on her way in.

 

He turns, heading straight for the kitchen. “I’m— I’m good. Did you want anything in particular? I’ve got beer, half a bottle of Jack, some Hendrick’s...” He pulls open his alcohol cupboard. “I’ve got tequila. No limes on hand, though.”

 

“Bummer,” Clarke says, wandering in after him and starting to shrug out of her coat. “Jack sounds nice.”

 

“Jack it is,” he says, pulling the bottle out of the cupboard. “Let me just find some glasses—”

 

“Bellamy.”

 

He pauses, the peculiar tone of her voice driving him to a complete halt. He turns to look at her, standing in the middle of his kitchen, still in her gown and completely overdressed… but somehow not one bit out of place.

 

“Clarke?” he asks, trying not to wince at how rough it comes out.

 

She’s playing with her own hand, angling her right index finger up and down with her left hand — almost like it’s a pencil.

 

“Is this okay?” she asks, a crease etched between her brows. “Me… being here, I mean.”

 

He must take too long to respond, because she takes a small, agitated step forward. “I know we’re not— I mean, I’m not trying to— oh _God_ —” She sighs sharply, and drops her hands. “You should have just said something if you didn’t want me to come home with you.”

 

He’s actually, _physically_ unable to come up with a response to that.

 

After a few long, agonising beats, he finally comes up with a half-croaked _“what”_.

 

She presses her lips together, as if in serious, conflicted contemplation. “I get that we’re not exactly… uh, _friends_? Maybe not properly, anyway. But I just—” She exhales suddenly, crossing her arms over her middle. “I don’t even know how it happened, but somewhere in the last four years, you became my favourite person in the world.”

 

He blinks. “I—”

 

“And I’m sorry if I’m making shit awkward right now,” she barrels on, shoulders tightening, “but honestly, I just _really_ don’t want to go back to exchanging emails half the year and then trying my best to stick to radio silence for the other half, because technically we’re not supposed to _have_ anything to talk about without another book in the works. Because not talking to you fucking _sucks_ , okay? I _hate_ it, even more than I hate trying to act like I can be cool and and professional and talk about work with you like I’m not completely in love with you even though ninety percent of the time, we’re not even fucking _talking_ about work _at all._ ”

 

Silence descends.

 

Bellamy can almost _feel_ it — like it’s an actual, tangible _weight_ on his head, wrapping around him so that the quiet roars in his eardrums.

 

After what feels like an eternity, he watches her take a deep breath, as if it’s happening in slow-motion.

 

“Sorry,” she says quietly, unwrapping her arms from her middle. “Sorry, I’m— I’ll just go.”

 

“You’re my favourite,” he blurts out. “Person,” he adds, at her stunned expression. “Not favourite artist, or co-worker, or whatever the fuck else. Just… my favourite person. In the _world_.”

 

She’s still looking at him with that expression — a little shock, a little confusion, and a lot like he’s just said he drinks gasoline by the gallon and listens exclusively to Icona Pop.

 

“But, uh, you already knew that,” he mutters, taking a cautious step forward.

 

He exhales, shaky and unsteady. “I’m probably supposed to come up with a better way to say this, but I love you. Too,” he adds, taking another step forward at the sight of her eyes widening, her lips parting. “I love you, Clarke. And before I mess this up by trying to be poetic, I’m just going to kiss you. Okay?”

 

She’s grinning. His heart leaps up into his ribcage at the mere sight of her practically _radiating_ happiness.

 

“Yeah,” she says as he takes the last two steps to bring him right in front of her, angling her face upward so they can maintain eye contact. “Yeah, one rambly monologue is probably enough for the both of us.”

 

He curves his hands around the sides of her face, palms cupping her jaw and fingers curling into her hair. “Probably,” he agrees, right before his lips meet hers.

 

 

 

* * *

 

  

 

**2 nd October 2016, 9:33pm**

**From: cgriffin@mail.com**

**To: bellamyblake@mail.com**

 

 

_Bellamy,_

_I’m home._

_To be more precise, I’m in the apartment that will continue to be home for the next, final two months of my lease. (I still can’t believe you asked me to move in with you, by the way. We’ve been together like two days. What a rash, impulsive decision. If this was Octavia, you’d never approve.)_

_I miss you already. To be honest, I missed you the second I started walking towards my gate. Remind me how we got through four and a half years of this?_

_I love you._

_\- Clarke_

 

 

**2 nd October 2016, 9:45pm**

**From: bellamyblake@mail.com**

**To: cgriffin@mail.com**

 

 

_Clarke,_

_‘The apartment that will continue to be home for the next, final two months of my lease.’ You should definitely start calling it that from now on. Or maybe you could abbreviate? TATWCTBHFTNF2MOML. It’s got a nice ring to it._

_I missed you the second we stepped into the airport. The second we got into the cab. The second we left the bed this morning._

_I missed you before you came into my life. I missed you so bad. I missed you so, so bad._

_(But honestly, I think I really do get that lyric now. Carly Rae Jepsen is kind of a genius.)_

_We got through four and a half years of this because we both suck at reading between the lines. Well, we both always knew I suck at reading between the lines. I don’t know. I guess I just spent four and a half years hoping you’d be a lot better at it._

_At least we don’t have to anymore._

_I love you._

_\- Bellamy_

 

 

 

 

 

**Author's Note:**

> thank you for ACTUALLY READING ALL OF THIS. i also made [an aesthetic](http://caramelkru.tumblr.com/post/150596307556) to go along with this fic, if you're into that!
> 
> kudos/comments always appreciated! would love to hear what you think =)
> 
> [and now i return to my safe, under-5k-word count comfort zone.]


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